


It Doesn't Match

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Leather, M/M, Multi, super fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-21 00:10:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek decides it's long past time for Stiles to get his own leather jacket, but he and Erica can't agree on the color. When they finally do manage to get one picked out, someone has to make a big deal out of the whole thing, and Stiles is very touched.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Doesn't Match

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Teen Wolf fic, so be gentle! I've always been a fan of leather, though I prefer black myself, and I guess the boots I got early for Christmas sparked my brain, hence this! Enjoy! Comments are love! <3

**.:It Doesn’t Match:.**

“It’s not black.”

Derek rolls his eyes; of _course_ that would be the first thing out of someone’s mouth. But no, not really, it’s not _someone_ , it’s _Erica_ , what a shock. The blonde bombshell is eyeing the coat speculatively. Isaac has his head tilted to the side like a confused puppy—once again, he wonders _where_ the hell he got this bunch, and _why_ them—and Boyd just shrugs.

Erica fingers the brown leather jacket’s sleeve, still on the rack, her face speculative—and _bitchy_ , he mentally adds—as she sighs, “I’m just saying it won’t match. Everyone else’s are _black_.”

“Black goes with everything,” Boyd says, then adds, “and for that matter, so does brown.”

Erica gives him a dry, ‘You Know Nothing, Jon Snow’ look and rolls her eyes with the kind of commitment that Derek can’t help but be proud of, and turns back to the garment, flipping a hand in the hair as if to dislodge those thoughts from “It _does not_. That is a bunch of crap that’s left over from the nineties when windbreakers were cool and high-waisted Mom jeans were hot. Brown doesn’t go with black.”

“Everyone else’s leather coats _are_ black…” Isaac says carefully, on the fence. Derek suspects he doesn’t _really_ care, but he’s faced with a problem, so he’s going to try to solve it. Erica shoots their Alpha a smug look, and he gives her a glare back.

“Not true,” Boyd says, and they all look to him. “Lydia’s is white.”

“Lydia bought her own,” Derek huffs. It wasn’t that they wouldn’t have gotten her one, it was that the redhead seemed to have caught onto the little pack thing before anyone else did. Lydia had come in the door of restored Hale house in the cropped, white leather jacket, and when Allison had said something about it, Lydia had tossed her hair over her shoulder, “The leather is clearly a pack thing, but black makes me look too pale. And this goes with my new shoes.”

So, the leather had become a pack thing.

“And Danny doesn’t even wear his,” Isaac says suddenly. They’d gotten him a standard black one, and he thanked them for the sentiment, but honestly said he probably wouldn’t ever wear it. They hadn’t seen him in it to this day.

“And Jackson’s has that white detailing,” Erica supplies with an almost sing-song tone that has Derek glaring at her once again. Boyd sticks his big, dark hands in the pockets of his own _black_ leather jacket, “And Allison’s is actually a dark purple, I think.”

“Scott got that for her,” Isaac replies. “And I don’t think Scott ever wears his, either.”

Derek is going to kill someone.

He ignores his pups—because _dammit_ if Stiles saying that so much (because he _never stops talking_ ) hasn’t gotten it stuck in his head, and though he’ll never admit it, it’s pretty much true—and looks back at the garment of question.

It’s a dark, rich brown, like chocolate, or coffee with just a splash of cream, or big, doe eyes. It’s got too many baubles on the front—zippers, false pockets, a stupid patch plastering the brand on the left breast—and he’s not going to get that specific jacket, but he thinks the color’s right. The brown leather just _feels_ right.

He’s got half a dozen reasons for wanting the brown leather over the black, and not a damn _one_ he can tell his pack without sounding like a total sap. The brown isn’t black, and that’s reason number one. Stiles isn’t a werewolf, but he still runs with them, defends then, protects them. He’s different, but the same as well. Brown leather is still leather.

The brown reminds him of the dirt and the earth, too. Earth is the forest, the solid ground under his feet as he runs, the basis of everything…and sometime, somewhere along the way, that was what Stiles became to all of them. The anchor, the solidness, the steadying beat.

And it reminds him of…

“So, no brown,” Erica says with a tone of finality, as Derek is pulled from his thoughts. He looks at the blonde, strong and confident, and immediately says, “Help me find one that doesn’t have all this crap on the front of it.”

Isaac and Boyd go do _just_ that as Erica spins, golden curls flying, glaring at Derek, “Did you listen to _anything_ I just said?!”

“No,” He answers honestly, and goes in search of the right jacket, waiting until his back is turned to smirk.

……………

Nearly a full day, three malls, and two towns over, they find it.

They’d searched every place, but, ultimately, there was always something off—too many zippers, stupid patches on the front, the wrong shade of brown, and, God _forbid_ , that one Erica brought to him with _tassels_.

But while Derek and Isaac are going through a rack— _the last rack_ , Derek realizes with some apprehension, since the mall’s getting ready to close and there won’t be time to find another one today—they find it. It doesn’t have zippers or tassels or patches, and is an almost-marbles, deep chocolate brown with two slits for pockets on either breast.

They get it, ignoring the irritated looking cashier—the store _was_ supposed to close fifteen minutes ago, so Derek doesn’t do much about the poor service—and head back to Beacon Hills.

…………….

Derek hadn’t meant to wait so long to find Stiles’ coat, things just got in the way.

As things are prone to do.

And when they start showing up, Derek knows _someone_ has decided to make a big deal out of this.

A big, _big_ deal.

Isaac, Erica, and Boyd return from town, several grocery bags carried between them, and Erica flips the keys to the Camaro off her finger and at Derek, who catches them flawlessly. Comically, they all match with the nearly-identical, black-leather coats and jeans in various shades of washed-out.

Allison comes in the door, wearing her purple leather coat over top a tan dress with black leggings and lavender shoes.

Nothing’s too weird.

Until Scott gets in the door.

Scott looks on the borderline of awkward in his black leather coat with the zippered pocket over the right breast, and a pair of old jeans with a hole in them. His lacrosse jersey is underneath.

Derek shoots Erica _The Look_ , but the she-wolf only grins— _wolfishly_ , dammit all to hell—and saunters off to converse with the new arrivals.

Lydia and Jackson come in, hand-in-hand. Lydia’s white leather jacket is overtop a pink dress paired with ivory heels, and Jackson’s black leather with the white accents is over a white polo and khakis.

Danny has, apparently, caught a ride with them, and walks in with a couple bags of chips, wearing charcoal pants and a mint green shirt.

And a leather jacket.

Derek slams the coffee pot down just a little too hard, since the glass shatters and flies everywhere as he stares straight ahead at the cabinet. Huge shoulders tense under his black shirt, he breathes slowly, counts to ten while systematically thinking of all the best places to hide a body in the woods, and then turns.

Isaac noiselessly pulls out another coffee pot—this happens a lot a _lot_ , so they keep spares—while Erica smiles like the wolf that ate the canary. Boyd just kind of sits back and unsuccessfully fights off the small smile.

Lydia clicks up in her heels, all petite, feminine grace, his leather jacket in her hands, and stands beside him expectantly, “Come on. He’ll be here any minute.”

Derek just growls low in his throat as he stretches his arms out and lets the redheaded genius put his jacket on him.

He’s going to kill them all, hide the bodies, and start over.

But, before he can do that, the tell-tale rumble of Stiles’ Jeep sounds and everyone scrambles to look nonchalant.

Isaac, Scott, and Jackson wind up taking turns on the Xbox while Danny sits behind them, chuckling once in a while. Boyd decides to stay in the kitchen sitting beside Lydia, where she’s perched on the counter as Allison and Erica fix sandwiches and various other little finger foods.

Derek looks toward the door, listening as Stiles cuts the Jeep off, open the door, jumps out, closes the door, and jogs up the steps. He listens to his heartbeat—slightly fast, like always, like a hummingbird, kind of—and listens and watches the door open.

Derek bites back a groan.

Stiles has let his hair grow out in his junior year, the soft hair a shade or two lighter than his eyes, sticking up in a uniformly-unruly fashion, and he grins brightly as soon as he closes the door, “Hey guys!”

Derek studies the spastic young man as greetings go around, and the Alpha can _not_ believe what he’s wearing. Faded jeans, black shirt, and a _red hoodie_.

His head snaps around as Erica swallows her planned loud-laugh with an awful strangling noise, and he can _see_ the Little Red Riding Hood and Big Bad Wolf jokes form in her mind. _He can see it_.

While Derek is studying Stiles, a gift bag is magically held out in front of him, and released. He catches it so it doesn’t hit the floor, and glares at Lydia, who is busy studying her nails.

He clenches the bag’s handle—is it _seriously_ a black bag with a wolf on a cliff silhouetted against a full moon? _Seriously_?—and watches Stiles bounce around and greet everyone— _every, single one of them_ , Derek can’t help but think with warmth and awe—before looping an arm around Allison’s and Erica’s shoulders, “What’s _up_ , ladies? What’re we makin’?”

“Just some easy stuff,” Allison smiles, and Stiles exclaims, “Oh, man, are those Pizza Pockets!?”

“I know they’re one of your favorites,” Allison grins sweetly, which Stiles answers with a playful kiss on her cheek and subtle theft. Erica gasps from his other side, “I’m insulted! I’m the one that got the mini-corndogs! I thought you loved those!”

“Oh, dude, I doooo!” Stiles croons and plants a kiss on Erica’s cheek, but soon pouts as she smacks his hand away. He bounces back quick though, and leans his back against the counter on the right of Allison, a few feet from where Derek’s standing. He grins at the Alpha, “What’s up, Sourwolf?”

Suddenly, _suddenly_ , everything gets _really_ quiet.

Isaac, Jackson, and Scott have paused their game, and almost silently clamored up on the couch and around Danny and Boyd—and, really, in any other situation  it would be hilarious, the way Danny is stuck to the arm of the couch, Scott is half-plastered to his back, Isaac and Jackson almost look like they’re hugging each other. Lydia’s nails aren’t so interesting anymore, Boyd is just _watching_ , Erica has stopped her food prep to lean up against the counter and stare at the way this scene is going to go, and Derek can’t believe that an _Argent_ is his favorite right now because Allison is the only one trying to be remotely normal, though he can see her glance over _way too often_.

The bag is really, really, obscenely, outrageously, stupidly heavy in his hand and he is rethinking this entire venture—as far back as returning to Beacon Hills—and he might, _might_ , be on the edge of a panic attack.

Not that he’s going to say anything.

So, while everyone else is staring at him—except Stiles, sweet, oblivious Stiles—he stares straight ahead at the door and tries to will them all to _just go away_.

“What’s going on?” Stiles asks as if just realizing the silence, his head snapping around at lightning speeds to take in _everyone_ , before settling on Derek’s face, “Come oooooon. This is creepy. What’s up?”

Derek tries, oh _God_ he tries to keep staring at the door but it’s _Stiles_ , sweet, intelligent, loyal Stiles with the full lips and big, heartfelt, doe eyes, and Derek’s own greenish-hazel orbs flick over, and Derek wishes he knew magic to make the bag disappear because everyone is going to make this a _big thing_ , and—

Erica hits Allison’s hand, dislodging the mini-corndog, which flies through the air and lands _right beside the bag_.

Stiles looks down, sees the bag, and then looks back up at Derek’s face, and Derek is going _to die_ at the look of complete and total curiosity and hope he finds there. Stiles points to himself, “Is that for me?”

Derek doesn’t trust his words, just nods and thrusts the bag out at him. Stiles takes it carefully, laughing slightly to himself, “Okay…it’s not my birthday, and it’s not Christmas that I know of…and if this is just some prank gift I’m going to be _so_ pissed—”

He stops—Derek has to wrap his mind around the silence, and the fact that _Stiles_ just _stopped talking_ —as he pulls the tissue paper out and reaches hesitantly down into the bag. He makes a face as his hands latch onto the thing inside, and then struggles a bit to get it out, but when he does, and the jacket just unfolds on its own…

Derek swallows the lump in his throat. He can’t really place the look on Stiles’ face, the emotions chasing through those big eyes. It’s odd, and familiar all the same, the way the shock, then the surprise, finally understanding and joy, relief and plain, ol’ _happiness_ flit through those chocolaty depths, and Derek gets it. He _gets it_.

Stiles finally feels like he has a place he _belongs_.

And Derek wants to kick himself. How could he not have seen that Stiles didn’t feel like a real member of the pack? What hadn’t he done to _make sure_ the young man felt that way? He’d saved all their lives on several occasions, been their friend, their protector, and _how the hell did Derek miss that_?

Stiles grins suddenly, popping back to his full height, the chocolate leather in his hands, and it might as well be Christmas for the grin that’s on his face. He thrusts it out, holding it at arm’s length to study it, before jerking it back in to hug it to his chest, literally bouncing up on his feet, “It’s the greatest thing _ever_! Thank you guys!”

“Wasn’t us,” Boyd says as Derek goes rigid and Erica jerks her head at her Alpha, half-sneering, “ _I_ wanted to get you a black one. _Derek_ insisted on the brown. He bought it, so I let him have _this one_.”

Stiles whirls as Derek swallows another lump in his throat. The younger man smiles at the Alpha, and it’s almost soft and so genuine, and he’s quiet, “Thank you.”

Derek nods, watches him run his hands over the material and while everyone is staring at him he feels kind of bad and like he needs to say something else. So he does.

“It was long past time that you got your own jacket,” Derek crosses his arms and shrugs, at least until Stiles can’t get into the jacket with his excitement. Derek rolls his eyes fondly and steps away from the counter to help Stiles into the garment, and when he manages to get in it, Stiles gives him the brightest smile that makes his breathing falter and his heart speed up. Derek looks away, goes back to his coffee making, “You’re pack. You’ve been pack for a long time.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything else, just integrates himself in-between Erica and Allison, and everything is normal.

If everyone wearing leather could be considered normal.

…………….

When the suns starts to dip below the tree line, they start to leave.

Allison and Scott have dinner with the Argents—though Scott doesn’t seem too happy about that—and Lydia and Jackson have dinner with her parents planned. Danny has a project to do—but Derek doesn’t miss how he gives Isaac a quick, chaste kiss before jumping down the steps and into Lydia’s car before they leave him—and Erica and Boyd excuse themselves not long after.

Soon, the sky blue Jeep is the only thing left besides the black Camaro, and Derek can’t help but think it’s a sight he likes.

Stiles ambles out a little later—still in his coat, Derek notes happily—and he hears Isaac head up to his room.

“This was nice,” Stiles says, hands crammed into the coat’s pockets. He’s smiling softly out at the mostly-leafless forest, “It’s been hectic. It was nice to get everyone together.”

Derek nods; he can’t tear his eyes away.

“And this,” Stiles adds quietly, a hand pulling the collar of the coat up; the gesture is hiding a shy smile, and it’s so odd, because he’s never seen Stiles as anything but boisterous and self-sure. Derek watches those big, brown eyes dart up from the lining of the jacket to meet his. The crinkling of the corner of his eyes lets Derek know he’s grinning, even if he can’t see that delicious mouth. “Thank you.”

Derek nods, hoping that gulp wasn’t too obvious, before he shrugs again, “Like I said, you’re pack. You should’ve gotten a jacket a long time ago.”

Stiles nods, his lower face still hidden by the jacket.

Until it’s not.

In a move that would make a werewolf both jealous and proud, Stiles pivots on his left foot, swinging himself in front of Derek, a hand braced on the column Derek is leaning against. Their heights are similar enough that he’s pretty much eye-level, so it’s not hard to press his lips against Derek’s.

Derek doesn’t respond for a minute, but when he realizes what’s going on, he puts a big palm on the back of Stiles’ neck, pulls him in for a deeper, hotter kiss. It’s a battle of tongues, but it’s slow and steady and warm, until Stiles can’t breathe and he pulls away.

He’s grinning, but it’s small and almost secretive, while Derek’s entire world is wobbling on its edge. Stiles dares to press another small, sweet kiss on his mouth—which Derek returns, naturally—before he starts to almost skip down the steps.

“Thanks,” Stiles calls out when he’s at the bottom of the steps, grinning from ear-to-ear, “again.”

“Anytime,” Derek responds, because that’s the God’s honest truth.

As the Jeep is rumbling away, Derek remembers the third, and _most important_ reason he had to get the brown leather.

It matches those big, beautiful, doe eyes.


End file.
